A Serpentine Path
by AzarDarkstar
Summary: In which the most cunning Slytherin isn't actually a Slytherin, and Harry Potter is far more than a normal schoolboy. The Dark Lord marked him as an equal for a reason. Third-year AU.
1. Part One

**_A Serpentine Path_**

 **Disclaimer** : All of this is based upon the lovely J.K. Rowling's work.

 **Warnings** : AU, Language

AN: This is basically an extrapolation on how a truly cunning Harry would behave. It's mostly canon compliant up to third-year and will jump around quite a bit. Updates will be very far part, I'd say.

Recommended listening: _Ambling Alp_ by Yeasayer.

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 **Part One  
**

For all his plots and plans, the most important moment – the gust of wind that sends the whole beautiful mess plummeting off a cliff – is true serendipity. At least for Harry.

Things are rather unfortunate for Draco Malfoy in the beginning, though Harry can honestly say it probably works out better for both of them in the end. After all, who wants to run around under the _Imperius_ for longer than strictly necessary? Or even at all really?

As it happens, things line up in front of Harry just so, and he still smiles thinking back on it decades later. Considering how differently things could've gone if even one teensy part was different.

It all happens on a boring day towards the end of October in the History corridor. They could've merely passed one another in the hallway, and nothing much would've come from this. But for once, Harry's alone. Hermione's off attending far more classes than should be humanly possible – and yes, Harry will figure out that mystery soon; he just needs more pieces of the puzzle. Ron, in the meantime, has completely misplaced his Potions book and is undoubtedly still turning his trunk inside out searching for it. He won't be joining Harry for some time, not until he realizes that the twins have once again stolen his stuff.

But again, Harry's alone. No other Gryffindors around with several Slytherins in the corridor. Instead of walking by them, he pauses and looks up. Unwilling to let so many people be at his back, especially when they've already shown their dislike for him.

He doesn't have much to worry about, however. Parkinson flounces off in the opposite direction as soon as she sees him, and the other girls follow after. Crabbe and Goyle aren't even there, busy serving a detention from McGonagall for being late to her class too many times in a row. That leaves only Malfoy with Zabini and Nott speaking to each other in the background and not really even paying him much attention.

Harry though is looking, and that's the only reason he sees it. He's close to Malfoy, closer than they've been in weeks without counting Potions where he has to put all his focus on Snape. Malfoy doesn't look at him back, which is strange in and of itself. Malfoy watches Harry almost as closely as Harry usually watches Malfoy, but it's different this time. Malfoy's different.

There's something to his gait, something to the way he holds himself that isn't quite right. It's similar to his usual haughty and arrogant posture, but it's off. Almost like Malfoy is pretending to be himself and isn't even doing a perfect job of it.

It's Malfoy's eyes, when Harry finally manages to see them, that give everything away though. Grey but vaguely glassy. Too dull. Too lifeless and fixed ahead.

He doesn't once look at Harry. Not even when Harry stops right next to him. And that's when Harry knows.

His paranoia's too great and he's researched too much on the Unforgivables to not see it. Trying to piece together why he survived the Killing Curse has naturally spawned some interest in the other two curses, as has his investigation of the war. His attempts to understand Riddle and his parents and the utter insanity and illogical nature of the Wizarding world.

All told, Harry knows what to look for. More than that, he knows Malfoy. Not perhaps as others do. Certainly not as his family does or his friends should. But Harry's spent the last several years watching Malfoy and the rest of Slytherin house by proxy. For self-preservation if nothing else.

Harry glances at Zabini and Nott then, and it takes them a few seconds to realize that he's looking at them.

"Something the matter, Potter?" Zabini asks with a bored tone, while Nott's gaze narrows slightly.

Harry, who's trying to decide the best approach at that very moment, takes the offered opportunity.

"Ah, yes, actually." He tips his head to the side but very blatantly doesn't go for his wand as Zabini and Nott both blink at him. "I was merely wondering how long Malfoy's been cursed."

Zabini snorts before he can stop himself, but it's Nott who answers.

"What are you on about?" he questions with complete disbelief. "Spending too much time with our crazy headmaster?"

Harry gives him a lazy smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He tips his head forward.

"Just an observation," he comments. "Of course, that's assuming you two had noticed, but I suppose not."

Nott frowns, and he doesn't exchange a look with Zabini, but that's a near thing. They don't go for their wands, but then, that would be too Gryffindor of them, too overtly aggressive. Instead, they shift ever so slightly. Just enough so that Harry's in their direct line of sight and the wall is at their backs. It's a perfectly sensible move, one that Harry thoroughly approves of, even if the whole thing weren't so terribly ironic.

And still, throughout all of this, Malfoy hasn't even moved. Hasn't so much as said a word. That alone makes Harry's point beautifully. Nott seems to get it slightly faster than Zabini, but Harry knows they both do when Zabini's hand clenches and Nott breathes out slowly.

"Look at him," Harry says then and makes a gesture at Malfoy that still doesn't earn him a reaction.

Whoever has cast the spell is strong enough to have full control but doesn't have the power – or finesse – to make Malfoy act as he normally would. After all, there's no way in seven hells that Malfoy would ever let Harry get this close without at least two snarky comments and a few insults.

Nott and Zabini, having caught on fully, are now looking at Harry like one would an impending broomstick crash. Dawning revulsion and horror but unable to do anything else.

" _Look_ at him," Harry repeats.

And finally, they do.

It takes them longer than Harry, even though they're looking for it. Not unexpectedly, Nott sees it first, and his hand goes out to grip Zabini's sleeve as he suddenly leans in to whisper something. Zabini's normally dark skin turns an interesting bloodless color, and Nott lets out a harsh breath. They stand there for a long minute as if completely unsure what to do.

"I think we should go to the Hospital Wing," Harry carefully offers then.

They glance at him again, as if suddenly remembering that he's there. A quiet exchange follows, spoken with eyes and brows and tightened hands. Nearly a minute later, they turn back to him and Malfoy, who's still standing there blankly.

"Lead the way, Potter," Zabini finally allows with an elegant gesture.

It's all the invitation Harry needs. He merely turns and snags Malfoy's sleeve. The blond doesn't even put up a protest as Harry starts steering him in the appropriate direction. Zabini and Nott trail after but a little off to the side. Harry doesn't need to see them to know that they're staring.

The walk is made in silence, but even as Harry escorts all three of them, he has to fight to contain the racing of his heart and the bubble of glee in his belly.

This is a beautifully wonder, completely unexpected, perfectly golden opportunity. One that has just fallen right into his lap and is practically begging to be used.

Harry plans to exploit it fully.

Once at their destination, it takes a few moments to convince Pomfrey of his sincerity, but she gives in readily enough when the other Slytherins step forward. She casts a quick diagnostic. That's swiftly followed by a furrowed brow, another diagnostic, and then a sudden paling of her skin.

Her eyes have gone wide as she whirls to look at Harry, but he can only offer a shrug. It's not like he's the guilty party after all. He has several suspects in mind but no true idea who's done this. That's a matter best left for others. Something that Pomfrey soon realizes, and she has all three of them sit on the sidelines as she turns back to Malfoy.

Her gaze has gone hard then. Determined even. Eyes lit with a fire that Harry's never seen in her before, no matter how injured he's been when brought to her care.

She lifts her wand in a motion that Harry doesn't recognize but is determined to commit to memory as he watches the spectacle. It doesn't seem like much on the surface, but he can feel magic rising as she casts. The air is heavy and staticky enough that Zabini closes his eyes and flinches away, but Nott merely moves further back.

Harry fights not to lean forward in interest.

It takes less time than expected, but he feels the curse break as she pours power into the spell. Harry knows that Malfoy's free when suddenly blinks and starts looking around as if coming out of a dream. The expression of absolute disgust that settles on his face immediately afterwards isn't surprising, nor is the fact that he jumps unsteadily to his feet and stumbles to the loo.

Pomfrey follows him briskly. The two remaining Slytherins look at each other and then Harry, but nobody says anything until Malfoy comes back. The blond is silent though, meekly sitting on the bed Pomfrey indicates before she turns to the others.

"You'll stay here while I contact the headmaster," she orders as if daring them to contradict her.

Harry, of course, is planning to do just that.

"Just the headmaster?" he asks, keeping his tone and voice as mild, polite, as possible.

Pomfrey considers for only a second. "I suspect I should send for Professors McGonagall and Snape, too."

But that isn't who Harry really means or wants, and that isn't nearly enough. Not for something like this. And perhaps that's really Hogwarts' problem. The fact that so many illegal – dangerous – things get swept under the rug and conveniently forgotten.

But Harry hasn't forgotten. Not Quirrell. Not Tom Riddle's diary. Not the basilisk. There's no way any of the parents could possibly be aware of their true realities. Not and keep the school open or for Dumbledore to not still be receiving Howlers every day.

And that's got to stop now. Harry might not have parents who care if he dies anymore, but Malfoy certainly does. For once, that's going to work to Harry's advantage.

"Not the Aurors? Not Malfoy's parents?"

It's a question still. But also a suggestion.

Pomfrey doesn't catch his undercurrent as she immediately dismisses him.

"The headmaster will call them as soon as he's aware." She makes an unconcerned gesture. "It'll all be settled."

Harry knows it won't though. And despite the fact that this is an opportunity for him, despite the fact that it's Malfoy who was cursed, despite any of it, the fact that she's so easily distancing herself from this already, that she's shunting aside responsibility when an Unforgivable was cast on a student… well, that just pisses him off. For this alone Harry wants to see how much she'd like being cursed and then abandoned. Or worse.

And knowing Malfoy Senior when he finds out, Harry suspects it'll be much worse.

Harry is on his feet before Pomfrey can even turn away. He doesn't touch her, not even close, but he blocks her way. Forces her to take a step back.

"I've been hurt quite a lot since I've come to school here," he says then, and while he keeps his voice calm, it isn't at all friendly. "A few times by faculty members even. And not once did anyone, including the headmaster, contact law enforcement. Much less my relatives."

Pomfrey's face is something between startled and glaring. He can't see the Slytherins but knows they're watching the by-play. Assessing. Deciding.

They won't be the issue. It's Pomfrey he needs to worry about. It's Pomfrey who needs to do more than wave her wand and give a stern lecture for once.

"I may not be a legal expert," Harry continues oh-so reasonably, "but I'm fairly certain the first people we should be contacting when an Unforgivable is cast aren't the professors in a school. I'd also think a healer would know that. Would also have the decency to send for his parents when he needs them."

Pomfrey flushes then, and while her face is tight and the look she gives him is approaching angry, Harry knows he's got her. Particularly when her head lifts and shoulders square, eyes flicking to Malfoy momentarily. She turns on her heel then and promptly marches for the fireplace. In the same gesture, she flicks her wand and throws in a powder from the jar on the mantle.

"Ministry of Magic, Auror Department."

Harry doesn't hear what else she says with the subsequent ward she casts, but her head is in the fireplace for over a full minute, and Harry sees Nott and Zabini nudge one another from the corner of his vision. Malfoy, on the other hand, doesn't move at all. When Pomfrey finally pulls back, her eyes have that same glint again, and it becomes even more apparent as she comes over to them again.

Harry knows exactly what she's going to say before she even opens her mouth.

"I'd also think that having our heads of house here is a recipe for disaster," Harry points out before she can even mention them again. "I mean, Slytherin and Gryffindor. We won't be able to get a word in edgewise once they learn we're here."

Pomfrey, unsurprisingly, doesn't even argue with that assessment. She merely gives the four of them a cool glance before turning back to Harry.

"Who do you suggest then, Mr. Potter?" She taps her foot loudly on the floor as she crosses her arms, but she's no longer in charge no matter how she tries to rein him in now. "The faculty needs to be involved. Even if the headmaster isn't here."

Just like that, she's gone from possible hindrance to ally. It's so easy that Harry can hardly believe this is happening. It's as if she wants him to lead her down the garden path.

"How about Professor Flitwick?" he suggests, amazing himself with how innocent it sounds. "Professor Sprout'd also be a neutral party."

There's a noise from one of the Slytherins behind them – Zabini, Harry thinks – but he doesn't turn to look. Instead, his attention remains on Pomfrey, who again bows down without much effort. Perhaps she's not used to someone standing up to her like this. Calmly, rationally. Not whining like a child she won't let leave early. More like an adult that she can't bully by her position in the school alone.

Pomfrey simply tips her head and jabs out her wand with a muttered spell. A misty form shoots forward, but it's indistinct at first, taking several seconds to coalesce into an actual shape. Pomfrey's entirely unfazed by this and bends down to whisper to the bear before it quickly rumbles off.

Harry watches it leave with satisfaction. The power dynamics are still in his favor, but he's content to leave things as they are while they wait. He settles for helping himself back to his seat and assuming a relaxed posture as he glances at the Slytherins.

They're anything but unperturbed.

Zabini's staring at Harry like he's a new and fascinating – but very frightening – species. One that may suddenly choose to attack if he breathes too heavily. Meanwhile, Nott seems torn, gaze going back and forth between Harry and Pomfrey like he can't quite decide what to think. Malfoy, still shaken from the _Imperius_ , merely watches his hands and doesn't once look up.

Flitwick's there in minutes. Indeed, he beats the Aurors by a good amount of time. Though to be fair, they do have to go get the elder Malfoys, while all Flitwick has to do is walk up a few flights of stairs.

Either way, the professor doesn't seem all that surprised to see Harry and three Slytherins in the Hospital Wing, but he does look to Pomfrey for an explanation. Harry's more than happy to chime in as she hesitates. When he finishes, his Charms professor is already in the process of doing a very good impersonation of McGonagall with how thin his lips become and the narrowness of his eyes. Regardless, he doesn't have an opportunity to say anything since the fireplace chooses that second to flare to life, and whatever comments he has are lost as Pomfrey moves to allow five more people to join them.

A woman who Harry can only assume is Malfoy's mother is the first to move, rushing to her son's side. Mr. Malfoy moves at a more sedate pace and with only a single assessing glance around the room. The others following them are in red Auror robes, and the woman out front has an air of authority and a familiar look to her. Amelia Bones, Harry realizes after a moment, recognizing her from the pictures in the paper detailing the hunt for everyone's favorite Azkaban escapee.

Who, by the way, has been out for months and still hasn't been caught. Despite the Ministry's bungling efforts.

The introductions are terse, tense, and not very informative since Madam Bones doesn't really bother to mention the names of her Aurors. Not to Harry at least since the adults seem to know them. Only Flitwick catches this omission though, but before he can get a word in, Bones is already turning to away. Pomfrey has already given her the bare basics it seems, but Bones has chosen to turn to the Slytherins first.

Nott shakes his head though while Zabini curtly informs her that he is merely here for moral support of a friend and classmate. Effectively leaving Harry to either rise to the occasion or completely take the fall on his own. How Slytherin of them. But not Slytherin enough. Not by a longshot.

Of course, they also have the elder Malfoys to vouch for them and see to their interests. Especially since Zabini is apparently something of a cousin and Nott's father a family associate.

Further leaving Harry out to dry.

Not that it matters. In fact, it only helps him when the Aurors seem to realize this.

"You, Mr. Potter, should have your guardian here," Madam Bones states very firmly. "Can't speak to you formally without a representative. Dawlish, fetch the headmaster then-"

Harry lets out a little laugh in perfect interruption, but it gets the exact reaction he wants.

"Something funny, Mr. Potter," she asks, and her voice is all too heavy.

It's perfect really.

"My guardian's Sirius Black," Harry answers almost cheerfully. "Surely, you know that."

From the startled gasps that echo the room, apparently not everyone did. But Bones doesn't look nearly so surprised. Oh, she does because he mentioned Sirius Black by name, but the gleam in her eyes tell him everything. She knew. Completely and utterly. Knew that legally speaking there's only one man with any real authority over Harry, and that man was conveniently imprisoned without trial and is now on the run.

That more than anything earns her a black mark in his tally. Several of them even. She merits very close watching in the future. Perhaps she's bidding her time to await justice. Maybe she's even been angling for an investigation. Or perhaps she's just like the rest, content with pretty lies and leaving the innocent in a cold, dark space to die.

Harry, however, says none of this. Instead, he has a quick glance around the room to study the various expressions of shock. Or the lack thereof. Mr. Malfoy and his wife aren't nearly so stunned. Neither are Flitwick or Pomfrey. The Aurors are, unsurprisingly. As for the Slytherins, they are more or less. But within the reasonable limits of children.

Hm… Harry can still work with this.

"He's my godfather," Harry offers with a shrug. "He's still listed as my legal guardian. I had it checked," he puts in an aside. At the look he gets, he adds, "What? You thought I wouldn't find out as much as possible about a man aiming for my head."

There's a very long pause after that revelation.

"Be that as it may," Bones finally allows, "you can't truly speak with us without an advocate. I don't believe Professor Flitwick will be enough."

Meaning they're already running into legal shenanigans, and they haven't even taken a statement yet. Pathetic. This is an opportunity that could easily slip into a nightmare. Especially if this goes to some sort of trial. And even more so with the Boy-Who-Lived involved.

Fortunately, Harry knows just who to ask for.

"I'd like my account manager then please. He's already representing my interests elsewhere and will here, too." He even offers a little pause for effect. "Steelclaw Bloodletter, if you will."

Madam Bones is tactful enough not to actually shout out the word _goblin_ , but her face all but screams it. The Malfoys have much better poker faces as a whole – not that Draco is paying much attention, even as he's squashed in next to his mother – but Malfoy Senior still lifts a brow in a move that isn't entirely scripted. Flitwick closes his eyes for a second, but doesn't say anything, while Pomfrey makes a pained sound. The nameless Aurors, Nott, and Zabini make varying faces before the latter two manage to control themselves with appropriate Slytherin decorum.

"Your account manager, Mr. Potter?" Flitwick asks finally. "No one else?"

"Who else in the magical world looks after my best interest? Not many," Harry points out. "At least, not the people who should."

That earns him another round of surprise, but it really shouldn't. There's a flash of something a lot like anger on Flitwick's face, and his eyes smolder in agreement. Harry's sitting close enough to feel Flitwick's magic rising to the surface before he can pull it back in.

Interesting. Seems like not everyone is very happy with how Dumbledore has played things so far. Harry will keep that in mind.

"Are you certain, Mr. Potter?"

"I can trust he'll look out for me," Harry replies. "I pay him after all."

That earns him a cool look from Madam Bones, but she complies after a long moment and suggestive cough from Flitwick. Soon enough, the Floo is burning again. Only two people step out instead of the one Harry's expecting.

This is even better.

"Steelclaw," Harry greets jauntily, rising to his feet. "Mr. Frost."

His account manager gives a subtle glance around even as he walks over. While his face is blank as usual, it's his eyes that give him away. For all that goblins aren't prone to showing much emotion around humans, Harry can tell that he's very concerned. Particularly when his gaze flits to the Malfoys.

"Mr. Potter, interesting company you keep," Steelclaw finally states with a regal nod of his head that Harry returns fully. "It seems that your typical luck is once more in play. Fortunately, I took the liberty of bringing your solicitor as you see."

"I was in Gringotts anyway," Mr. Frost offers, but it's not nearly as reluctant as it should be.

"Oh? Talking about me again?" Harry asks with a grin.

Mr. Frost gives a small smile of his own. "Among other things."

He looks very composed as usual, greying hair and blue robes perfectly in place, face a pleasant and blank mask. So very put together. A good thing with all the bombshells that Harry likes to drop on him. Which is why Harry has decided to pay him more than the going rate. He's most certainly going to be working for his money, and it's not like Harry's worried about running out anytime soon.

Apparently for legal matters, Harry could access more than just his trust vault. A very nice loophole that Steelclaw had found for them, one that's earned him a bonus as well. For all the jokes about lawyers – and goblins, too – Harry finds that he prefers them to most people. Pay them, they treat you well. Don't pay them, they no longer work for you.

Much more trustworthy than most relationships.

But anyway.

Everyone's brought up to speed soon enough with helpful – and not so helpful – interjections from various parties. After what feels like a million questions, a look in Malfoy Senior's eyes that promises forthcoming vengeance, and several honest to Merlin tears from Mrs. Malfoy, Harry feels like they're all finally on the same page.

Naturally, it's at that point that Bones motions for one of her Aurors to test Malfoy the younger for spell residue, and when he gives her a sharp nod a moment later, she pulls out a very odd looking purple quill. To this point, her Aurors have been using green ones that write without any human input, but even without the color change, Harry knows this is much more official. He's seen such a quill before, has even used one when signing documents for Steelclaw and Mr. Frost.

Bones catches his comprehension as he glances at her. "Use of an Unforgivable is a very serious matter," she informs them all and seemingly Harry in particular. "This is now a formal investigation."

She motions to her Aurors, who've already brought out different quills of their own. The one who's once again casting on Malfoy is using blue, while the other who's just cast a Tempus charm is using red.

"Are you willing to testify to all of this, Mr. Potter? To everything you just told me?" Bones half-asks, half-demands without preamble. "And understand that this case will with all likelihood lead to a lifetime imprisonment for the culprit."

Really, for all that she looks similar to Susan, the personality is all wrong. Susan is a very sweet if naïve girl. There's nothing sweet about her auntie though as she looks at him over her monocle.

"With Veritaserum, I assume," Mr. Frost cuts in then. He casts a look at Harry when she gives a curt nod.

They've already talked about this before. Several times in fact over the summer.

Harry offers a nod of his own.

"Are you sure about this, Mr. Potter?" Flitwick inquires, and Harry is actually touched by the concern in his voice. Out of all the staff, Flitwick is probably the one who truly looks out for all of the students regardless of house or reputation.

"They're only going to ask me a few questions," Harry replies with a gentle smile and a cackle in his soul. "What harm can the truth do?"

He's already reaching for the vial Bones has just now offered. The potion is tasteless, and Harry can feel the effects almost immediately. He expects it though, has known somewhere along the line that it's likely he'll be dosed for one reason or another. He's prepared for this, studied and watched. Had flipped through and looked over information in _Moste Potent Potions_ countless times last year while Hermione was distracted by brewing Polyjuice.

If only she'd known. If only she'd bother to pay attention. Her and everyone else.

Harry tells them the truth. It's simple really. He'd been walking in the corridor, noticed Malfoy, figured out something was wrong, brought him here. End of story.

Only Amelia Bones doesn't seem to be buying it. Neither does Flitwick. Not really. But it's Bones who is the real concern.

But at the end of the day, for all that she's an adult, for all that she's supposedly a trained investigator, she's also a pureblood from the Wizarding world with none of the cold, hard logic born from Muggles. There's a reason, after all, that majority of the greatest magicals in recent times are either Muggleborns and half-bloods or others with one foot firmly in reality. A reason that the best discoveries and most useful inventions are from the same population. From people actual able to use their brains.

Yet, even with that… at the end of the day, wizards – and witches, to be fair – are so very easily duped.

"What aren't you telling us, Mr. Potter?" Bones questions then, more rhetorically than anything.

If Harry weren't under Veritaserum, he'd have to try very hard not grin. This is all the opportunity he needs.

The next few minutes are met by nothing less than stunned, stabbed through the heart, silence as Harry details the events of his first year. The mention of Voldemort on the back of Quirrell's head earns him quite a few gasps, but no one stops him as the awful truth keeps coming when he moves on to second year. They don't even think to ask him who gave Ginny the diary, which is probably a very good thing with Malfoy Senior sitting right there.

When he gets to the part about the basilisk, Pomfrey makes a wounded noise in the back of her throat, even as Madam Bones nearly jerks out of her seat. Beside him, Flitwick is vibrating with fury, and Harry actually feels his magic burning beneath the surface.

The rest of the room is in much the same straights. His yearmates are openly gaping now, even Malfoy the younger. The three Aurors are in various states of controlled shock and fury, while Mrs. Malfoy looks ready to faint. Malfoy Senior holds his cane with a death grip. Steelclaw and Mr. Frost, the only ones who've heard the story before, exchange a single, pointed glance.

It's only because of the Veritaserum that Harry doesn't laugh and keep laughing. He will. _Later_. When he's had time to congratulate himself on a job well done. When he's waiting for rest of the fun to start.

And it will. So very soon.

* * *

AN: Another fic that's been languishing on my hard drive for some time. I'll try to be good and actually finish it.

* * *

Ever Hopeful,

 _Azar_


	2. Part Two

_**A Serpentine Path**_

 **Disclaimer** : All of this is based upon the lovely J.K. Rowling's work.

 **Warnings** : AU, Language, Speculation

AN: It has occurred to me that the initials for this story spell out ASP. This is entirely coincidental.

* * *

 **Part Two**

 _He's seven years old and a freak. He crouches in the bushes directly beneath the parlor window. It's the perfect hiding spot really. Too close to Petunia's domain for Dudley or his gang to dare approach and just far enough away that the rest of the Dursley family can't spot him easily. Passersby can't see him either, which is only a bonus._

 _There are three of them even now, standing at the divide between number 4 and the house next to it. Petunia, who's having her afternoon respite with a glass of sherry, won't notice them for some time, but he's still cautious as he turns very slowly to hear them better. It's just gossip; that's all anyone around here ever does, but every bit of information is useful in its own way._

 _He eases down and around a particularly thorny rose bush, moving steadily until he's at the corner of the house and well within earshot. Of course, it isn't hard to hear them; they aren't even trying to be quiet._

" _-haven't seen that little beggar lately either," the first and oldest of the trio is saying, and he knows that she lives directly across the street. "Always dresses like he popped out of Dickens novel. A disgrace he is. Probably digs his clothes out of the rubbish bin."_

 _A younger – but much rounder – woman snorts. She's from further down the road, closer to Wisteria Walk, but he recalls that her husband likes blondes and has been spotted with a very pretty, very thin one lately._

" _How's he related again?" she asks, voice far shriller than one would expect. "Off some useless cousin or something?"_

" _Oh, no," a third woman cuts in. She's actually the Dursley's next-door neighbor and somehow manages to be even fouler than them. "He's from Petunia's whore of a sister."_

" _Spread her legs for anybody, that one did. Sold herself for drugs," her older friend in the blue dress mutters, and she's the same one whose son got kicked out last year for fancying blokes. "Heard she died of an overdose."_

" _I thought her pimp killed her," the neighbor corrects with a flick of her dyed hair. "Threw her out like the rubbish for decent people to find."_

" _Really?" the youngest woman questions with half-surprise, half-eagerness to hear more. "What of his father?"_

 _The other two laugh._

" _Doubt his mother ever figured it out," the neighbor states, and her voice is a vicious, nasty thing. "Probably didn't even know his name."_

 _There's another round of laughter, but it's quickly covered up as the letter carrier approaches them from the far side. He can still see them chortling though, heads bobbing up and down with mirth. They're still laughing when they finally disperse minutes later._

 _One person isn't laughing, however. It isn't funny to him. Not yet. Not until years later when he looks back and ponders how truly pathetic the scene had been, and not for the reasons the neighbors would think._

 _He doesn't laugh, but he'll remember. And always will._

-O.o.O-

For an orphan, Harry doesn't think about his parents – or even his grandparents – nearly as much as one would think. They only cross his mind occasionally and usually only when he wonders what kind of person could possibly have been related to, much less have spawned, Petunia. Of course, he does infrequently wonder what sort of people could've ever created him. With his knobby knees, green eyes, quick fingers, and peculiar nature.

Or why such people would've ever thought it a good idea to leave him with the Dursleys.

They aren't as horrible as they could be, he supposes. Petunia _has_ tried to hit him with the frying pan, but she always misses, and Vernon's only used his belt twice. They do remember to let him out of this cupboard for chores and bathroom breaks, and Petunia complains about the smell if he doesn't get to shower daily.

Still, an orphanage would almost be preferable, Harry thinks. But it's an unknown quantity. The Dursleys, he knows; he can manipulate.

They're simple really. For all that Vernon and Petunia are adults and both spent time at a university, they aren't all that complicated. They crave normality, a good reputation, money, and to keep him downtrodden. All he has to do is keep his head down as he waits, listens, watches, and remembers. If he makes it look like he's struggling to get his chores done, makes it seem like he doesn't have free time, and he won't get more tasks added. If he makes himself appear pathetic and intimidated, they'll be satisfied. If he crumbles after a hit or two from Dudley or his gang, they'll chuckle before heading off.

The Dursleys don't know him at all. Don't see him really. All they see is a wretched little orphan.

The truth is a different matter.

They'd be all too surprised to know the sorts of things Harry does when they aren't looking. They'd also be surprised by just how much money he's managed to amass in the years he's lived with them. That might even be his greatest secret. Even bigger than the snakes he chats with in the garden, turning a teacher's wig blue, or winding up on the school roof – and hiding out until nightfall before climbing back down.

There's a trick to stealing, and it isn't only knowing where to hide his ill-gotten gains – Dudley's spare bedroom, beneath the floorboards. It's truly in knowing when and how much to take. Five here. Ten there. Twenty on a day when Vernon is particularly drunk and will be even more hungover in the morning.

Only take from the dresser on days Vernon knows Petunia has gone shopping. Only filch from Vernon's wallet during nights he's been to the pub. Snag from Dudley's holiday and birthday funds a few days after the event in question but before a full week is up.

The teachers at school are trickier but manageable. Their eyes are sharper, but they have far more charges to watch, and he slips under their gaze by being as boring as possible. It doesn't hurt that he's short with clever fingers that slide into purses and pockets smoothly, and he always makes sure never to take from his own classroom or to hide his loot there either.

Harry has a nice little nest egg. One the he contributes to regularly right up until his eleventh birthday.

That's the day his world changes. Or at least, he thinks it was supposed to.

" _Yer a wizard, Harry._ "

But even with magic, it's all the same.

There are still stares. Whispers. Fake smiles and a simpering undercurrent that promises he'll be used, abused, and discarded at their earliest convenience. It takes less than five minutes in Hagrid's company to know that Harry will have a role to play here, too. Only it'll be the heroic orphan – not just the pathetic one.

Magicals are just like Muggles, it seems. Or possibly even easier to fool. Aside from Ollivander, the only people he meets that day who seem truly intelligent or even interesting are the goblins, and his vault is something of a revelation in and of itself. More so than even his wand.

The most surprising thing of all though is his fame.

Of course, it's also confusing, and the whole thing is as clear a mud. Since really, why is he even famous? It's pretty obvious from the moment Hagrid tells him the story that he survived because of something his parents – his mother, most likely – did. Or maybe even something Voldemort didn't do. Why the wizards think Harry had anything to do with it outside of simply being present is beyond him.

But they do. And that's when Harry knows for sure that he's landed himself in an enormous mess without a clear escape.

Hagrid's a good source of information, however. Better yet, he doesn't realize what he gives away as Harry blitzes him with questions. Hagrid's good for other things, too. Not only does he get Harry a very beautiful owl who happens to be smarter than most of the kids at his previous school, Hagrid's also wonderful for knocking over entire shelves in Flourish and Blotts. While he helps the owner pick up, Harry naturally takes the chance to flip through a few books. Ones from a very disturbing table with an overheard display that has his name and an artistic rendering of what he's supposed to look like.

What he finds makes Harry nearly throw up. It's so over the top and outright ludicrous that it goes beyond laughable into the downright insulting. Of course, it only strengthens Harry's opinion that he's expected to be some sort of hero. Some type of martyr for the cause. Expected to save everyone while looking fantastic and amazing as he does it.

Sigh.

Which is why he spends the month leading up to school not only learning his course books but exactly what his expected place is. What he's expected to be.

 _Hogwarts: A History_ , _Modern Magical History_ , and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ are still the best galleons Harry has ever spent, and Hedwig gets quite a workout bringing him even more books. Come September 1st, Harry's public persona is perfected and familiar enough that he wears it like a favored robe.

Everything goes to plan.

Look lost and alone while boarding the train. Find someone tolerable but not too intelligent to befriend. Get sorted anywhere but Slytherin – or Ravenclaw if there's another option. Find a rival who really isn't hard to best. Blend in. Look average, mediocre even. Only shine in expected things. Quidditch for one. Defense for another. Wait in the shadows.

It works perfectly then and keeps working now. Shields him from view as he sets up his plans, one by one.

Then, it's show time.

He really should get Malfoy a gift basket for making it so easy.

-O.o.O-

Flitwick's office is cozy with squishy armchairs and overstuffed bookshelves, and it's respectably decorated in brown and cream with hints of blue. The fire is warm but not overly hot as Harry takes the offered seat, and he isn't surprised when Flitwick opts to sit in the chair next to him instead of behind the desk. He's more approachable that way, more open and welcoming. Luring in students with his ready smile and cheerful demeanor.

Well, two can play that game.

He offers his own smile and casts a glance around as Flitwick calls for a house-elf. Harry hasn't had reason to come here before. Despite his fame, he hasn't been noticeable enough. Hasn't merited special attention from any professor save Snape, though that was of the negative variety. Or Lockhart last year during his many self-preening sessions. The permanent – and still valid – permission slip for the Restricted section is totally worth it, however. And if Lockhart happened to lose several self-inking, self-correcting, and otherwise extremely valuable quills while Harry answered his mail… well, that doesn't bear mentioning.

Harry gives a nod of agreement as Flitwick orders tea for both of them, and he settles more fully into his chair as his professor sets out dishware with a wave of his wand. One could think that the man is purposefully ignoring him, but Harry knows this for what it really is. A bid for time. A way of giving distraction while he orders his thoughts.

He'd wanted Harry to come to his office. That much was obvious from the moment Madam Bones departed. Only, Flitwick hadn't expected Harry to show up on his own. Or to do so this early. Barely twelve hours since the Aurors have left and while everyone from Dumbledore on down is still reeling from the swarm of investigators, Ministry minions, and reporters. Not to mention the Board. Who, come to think of it, might still be prowling around.

Harry knows he's timed this perfectly.

It's something of a gift, he admits. Getting his opponents off on the wrong foot. Often from the very start but occasionally mid-stream as well. Whichever suites him more at the time.

It keeps them guessing, when they've even figured it out at all. It isn't uncommon for no one to realize Harry is not only aware of their schemes but has maneuvered them into a position that hurts their cause while simultaneously helping his own.

Just ask Voldemort. He seems to fall for Harry's plots every schoolyear so far.

The only thing better is that he still underestimates Harry. They all do. In everything from adventures to academics.

It's just as he wants. Be the underestimated, mediocre wizard who coasts by on his fame and smarter friends.

Let Hermione get it first. Then one or two of the others. Complete things when McGonagall or whoever's teaching is distracted. Make sure there are a few scattered spelling mistakes in his essays and that the writing is appropriately messy.

No one gives it – _him_ – a second glance. Of course, Harry needs high scores to accomplish his goals, but he needs to stay in the shadows. It isn't nearly as delicate a dance as it could've been. He thanks Merlin for Hermione's existence daily. She makes everything so much simpler. Makes it easier to hide behind her waving hand, overly long essays, ridiculous study schedule, and deep love of authority.

Know an answer that he shouldn't: well Hermione told him. Need a ready-made excuse for how good his coursework is: Hermione made him study. Have to get away from Ron for a while: nudge Hermione and him into an argument.

Absolutely perfect. Just what Harry needs.

She's bearable enough, too. Something of an actual friend if he's honest with himself, and he truly does like her. Ron, as well. Both of them are certainly willing to stick with him so far, despite Dark Lords and Basilisks and now Azkaban escapees.

Saving Hermione from the troll and befriending her was one of Harry's best moves. He still pats himself on the back for that one. It's second only to sorting himself into Gryffindor in the first place. The only way that could've gone better was if he'd ended up in Hufflepuff, which had been his initial choice.

He likes her, but she only gets to see what Harry allows. What he wants her to see. Just like he does for everyone else.

Be seen playing chess with Ron or hanging out in the common room a few times a week in the evenings. Show up to Quidditch practice, joke with the team, win matches. That's all it takes to satisfy his Housemates, to keep them from looking too deeply.

His mornings are his own. No one really knows how much earlier he gets up than they do as long as he shows up to breakfast. Ron, thankfully lazy, is usually one of the first to sleep and last to rise. That gives Harry plenty of time on his own. The only one who might notice is Neville, but he's too busy trying to hide from his own shadow to really take note. Seamus and Dean are oblivious and wouldn't care anyway, and Ron isn't exactly the most perceptive individual.

Which isn't to say that Harry doesn't like Ron. Despite his plans and own nature, Harry actually does. Ron's nice enough and more genuine than most of the kids clambering for his attention. Besides, Harry knows that he's far too straightforward and transparent to be capable of any true duplicity for longer than a few minutes.

And yet, he's so… _Loud_. Childish. Young. Coddled by his mother and wrapped in thick wool by his entire family. For all his poverty, Ron's never gone hungry. He's never been forced to work for his keep. He's never had more than a swat at his backside and a stern lecture.

Hermione's the same way. She's grown up the darling of her parents, their only child. The gifted, brilliant daughter to two overachievers. She's always lived in large, comfortable house. Been treated to exotic vacations. Received the best that her family could provide.

While Harry does like both of them, neither of them understands. They don't truly know what it's like. They've always been loved and looked after. Cherished.

Harry stands on his own. Has for as long as he can remember. Both with the Dursleys and here at Hogwarts. He certainly can't count on the faculty to help him.

Not Quirrell or Lockhart, that's for damn sure. Both of them had tried to harm him, though in different ways.

The others aren't much better.

The headmaster certainly isn't looking out for him. That much had been clear from the moment Harry opened _Modern Magical History_ and realized that Dumbledore was the one to declare him the vanquisher of Voldemort. It's only reinforced when he received his Invisibility Cloak. What kind of adult would give that to an eleven-year-old and turn them loose? What kind of teacher? Not to mention last year when a monster wandered the school and Dumbledore had done nothing to stop it or even get his students to safety somewhere else.

It gets worse from there.

McGonagall is Dumbledore's lapdog, his lackey through and through. She goes whatever direction the headmaster points. Ignoring the in-fighting of her own House, the feuds between the other students, and not caring until the curses start flying. Only handing out detentions and tongue-lashings when she can't pretend anymore.

Snape's much the same. Though he'll still manage to get his own agenda in place and be otherwise thoroughly unpleasant as he goes along with things. And if he happens to verbally crush his students and stomp on their dreams in the process, so much the better.

Sprout, in turn, seems to meander through life in a pleasant haze, and while she might tout the Hufflepuff virtues of fair play and equality, Harry's watched her closely enough to know she's just as biased as the others if quieter about it. Her Badgers will always come first no matter what, and she'll overlook their wrongdoing unless otherwise called out. The only person outside her House that's treated better is Neville, and that's only because he's a Herbology prodigy. If he didn't have that going for him, Sprout would overlook him the same she does the other Gryffindors.

Flitwick seems to be the lone exception amongst the heads. He actually seems to care. Not just about the Ravenclaws but about all the students. Offering to tutor them or give extra credit whenever need. Being the voice of reason during most debates amongst the staff. Standing as the lone sane man during the various crises.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that Flitwick has something of a personal – if small – stake in Harry. He knows from some very discreet questioning of Sir Nicholas that his mother was a favorite of Flitwick, after all. She'd apprenticed under him even before the upswell of the war and Dumbledore's removal of any non-staff from the grounds. They'd put things on hold after that, and then, his mother had fallen pregnant before going into hiding. The rest is history as they say.

How disappointing Harry must be after teaching the sainted Lily Evans Potter, one of the most brilliant of her generation.

He snaps from his thoughts to the sound of a house-elf popping into view and watches as a steaming teapot is deposited on the tray Flitwick already has set up. It's accompanied by pastries that look absolutely delicious, ones that Harry knows are most definitely not on the menu in the Great Hall.

The Charms professor sets about divvying them immediately, and Harry's actually a little surprised when the blackberry-filled ones end up on his plate. It appears that while Flitwick may underestimate him, he's still seen enough of Harry to know which he'd like.

How interesting.

Doubly so when Flitwick only offers Harry cream for his breakfast tea and not any sugar.

"I honestly don't know what to say, Mr. Potter," Flitwick finally speaks several minutes later as he fixes his own cup. "The last few days have been something of an unfortunate revelation, and it's only looking back that I realize how much I've managed to miss. We all knew that Voldemort was there at the end of your first-year, but I'd thought that Quirinus had smuggled him in the castle. Not…"

"Had him on the back of his head," Harry supplies helpfully when it seems obvious his teacher is struggling for the right words.

"Quite right," Flitwick allows with a soft snort. "Not to mention the Basilisk! Or Miss Weasley!"

Harry offers a shrug as he stirs his tea. "Didn't Dumbledore tell you?"

"Most certainly not," Flitwick announces, and Harry's surprised by the bite in his voice. "We only knew it was Voldemort. Yet again. The headmaster would've certainly gotten an earful if he'd told us the truth! Letting that poor girl simply return to class without sending her to Saint Mungo's. Not even consulting them about any of the petrified students."

He makes a sound not unlike a growl, and his teacup actually dances out of his reach when he sets it down too harshly. Harry merely blinks, even as he quietly reevaluates the man in front of him. This is an unforeseen side of his professor. Most definitely.

"I never imagined," Flitwick begins once he's reigned himself in. "We all thought… We all assumed…"

He sighs, and his shoulders actually sag for a second. Which is at complete odds with the tingle of his magic as he beckons his teacup closer. He takes a large sip as if to steady himself and swallows slowly.

"I think we made far too many assumptions," Flitwick says after a few heartbeats, and the recrimination in his demeanor is now replaced by something else. Something quieter, searching. "I think we neglected too much and expected others to do as they promised. I think we looked away too many times and pretended not to see."

He breathes out then, and Flitwick looks both old and tired and perhaps little heartbroken. His hands don't shake as he sets down his cup, but he does grip the handle too tightly.

"Your account manager, Mr. Potter," he says then, and it isn't a question. "Is there truly no one else to look out for you?"

And now, they're at the real issue at hand. The real reason Flitwick wants Harry here. Not Dark Lords. Not monsters. Not even Unforgivables.

Instead, it's all about Harry. All about the things that are painfully obvious in retrospect if anyone bothers to look.

"I also have Mr. Frost," Harry replies a bit too jauntily as he takes a large bite of pastry. It really is delicious.

"Your solicitor," Flitwick rejoins, but it really isn't a question either.

"Mr. Frost's very good to me," is all Harry says to that. "They both are. I trust them have my best interests in mind."

Flitwick gives him a look that wouldn't be out of place on Mrs. Weasley. Part sympathetic, part polite tiger.

"You pay them after all," his professor murmurs, and his voice is soft, like a sigh.

Harry washes his pastry down with more tea. "Of course," he replies and pours himself more, "who else would there be?"

Flitwick, it seems, isn't quite sure what to say to that. He just gives Harry a speculative glance as he hands over the cream.

"Though," Harry adds after a second, "I do have to say that I haven't known them very long. "Steelclaw's a recent addition as my account manager, you see. He's only been in charge since the summer before my second year, and it took an insane amount of paperwork to get it switched over. Poor Hedwig got quite a workout for months."

"Did she?" Flitwick asks, and his tone is somewhere between befuddled and dismayed. Like he can't quite decide what he's supposed to feel or think at the current moment.

Harry offers him a small grin, but there's an edge to it he knows Flitwick has never seen before. Not from him. One that wouldn't be out of place for Malfoy when he thinks he's being especially clever.

"Oh, certainly," Harry answers, and the grin widens as he pushes his cup away. "The previous one… well, he was all out of sorts, you see. Let too much go in his old age. Let too many people take advantage of him." He rests his chin on his hand, even as he looks at Flitwick over his glasses. "There was nothing for him in the end. Lost his head over things, the poor fellow."

The smile is gone from his lips now, but there's a gleam in his eyes that's too sharp. Too shrewd. Simply too much. This is a gamble, Harry knows. Not as big a one as it could be but large enough. A risk to show at least some of his cards, but Harry hasn't gotten this far on schemes alone. Sometimes, he has to take a chance as well. Has to play the odds and wager for a better situation to come his way.

Flitwick takes a deep breath as their eyes meet. His cup is abandoned in front of him, now gone cold as the mantle clock ticks in the background, and his hands are clasped tightly together on the tabletop.

"You are very unexpected, Mr. Potter," Flitwick finally comments. His gaze is too astute, too assessing.

Flitwick looks even closer at him, and Harry knows that the man has seen past at least some of the masks. That he doesn't see a child or a Gryffindor or even the son of his protégé but something else entirely. He doesn't see Harry then, not all of him. Not yet. But he sees more than anyone else at this school ever has, and Harry actually feels his heart speed up a bit at his gamble. It's a tricky play, but Harry needs to start drawing in allies and not ones who are schoolchildren or on his payroll.

"How so, Professor?" Harry replies, cocking his head to the side in a pure imitation of curiosity and innocence.

Flitwick knows better now, sees through the façade. "I think you know." His fingers loosen to tap the tabletop in a deliberate rhythm. "Just as I think there's far more to you than anyone here has realized, and I'm ashamed to admit I've been doing you a great disservice for the last few years."

Harry allows himself a slow blink, but his face remains the same puzzled mask as Flitwick continues to look directly at him. His professor keeps looking, keeps studying him for a very long moment. He searches Harry's face the way a Ravenclaw would search the appendix of a book, the way a Seeker searches for a Snitch. As if by looking hard enough, he can finally spot the truth and end this game.

Harry doesn't sweat as he hears the clock tick and the silence stretches on. He's been in far more intimidating circumstances than this, but Harry still can't help the trickle down his spine or the way his belly twists with something like excitement.

Even more so when Flitwick finally breaks eye contact before turning to summon something with his wand. A newspaper quickly floats over and settles between them on the table.

"I wasn't sure you'd seen this yet, but I thought you should be among the first," Flitwick offers then, and Harry knows that he's won this round.

He doesn't gloat, not yet anyway. Particularly when the single paper is joined by several more, which fan out in front of him with blazing headlines and pictures that would be shouting out loud if they could.

Harry glances from one to the next. From Dumbledore looking a bit wild-eyed on Hogwarts' front lawn to Fudge's harassed bearing as he scrambles to get away from the reporters. It's very hard to conceal the entirety of his mirth as his gaze skims over the words underneath.

The headmaster's facing an inquest? And the minister, too? How unfortunate for them.

A peek up shows that Flitwick is watching him carefully from behind his teacup, but between sips, Harry still manages to catch the slight smile the man wears. He seems more amused than anything, but there's a glimmer of almost vindictive satisfaction. Again, Harry thinks that not everyone at Hogwarts is happy with how Dumbledore's been managing things, and if what Percy Weasley told him is correct, Flitwick might not look like it, but he's been a professor here nearly as long as Dumbledore has.

Harry ponders that as he continues to skim over the articles. It'll only be a matter of time before they start looking into other matters. Such as, Sirius Black and Harry current living situation. Like the events directly after his parents were killed and how exactly Harry ended up with Petunia Dursley. Something that Mr. Frost has told him is in clear violation of wizarding law since he has living – if distant – magical relatives, not to mention a godfather.

That's, of course, assuming they haven't already.

Madam Bones isn't to be trusted, but Harry knows at least some of this has to be her work. She's proving useful, even if Harry can't rely on her motives. Still, just seeing the Ministry scramble to clean-up this mess, while Dumbledore and his lackeys are fighting to do the same…

This is a Patronus moment. Certainly.

Harry allows himself a laugh then. One that's both thrilled and far too satisfied with recent events. It's mirthful and bright and all together so unlike the real him but genuine just the same.

Behind his cup, Flitwick's smile widens.

* * *

AN: I know I was harsh on Sprout here, but this is cunning!Harry's POV, and Sprout has been neutral at best. Even in canon, Sprout doesn't put a stop to the whispers about him in second-year, despite the fact that we know at least some of them come from her House. Not to mention that she's quietly hostile to Harry after the champions are announced in his fourth-year.

* * *

Ever Hopeful,

 _Azar_


End file.
